Sweet Little Boy
by dreamsweetmydear
Summary: A case revives some of Tim McGee's darkest memories, and Gibbs learns that his youngest agent's childhood was anything but idyllic. Warning: sexual abuse. Submission for the WAYTMcGee? challenge @ NFA. Already complete. Will post a chapter a day.
1. Chapter One

Title: Sweet Little Boy  
Rating: F15  
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Tim, Gibbs, a smattering of the others. Slight McAbby.  
Summary: A case revives some of Tim's darkest memories, and Gibbs learns that his youngest agent's childhood was anything but idyllic.  
Warnings: Abuse, disturbing imagery  
Challenge(s): Why Are You Torturing, McGee? Challenge NFA

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**From the author's desk: **You may have read some of my other stuff on here in other fandoms (_Rurouni Kenshin_, especially) when I was still known here as **IceAngelKaoru**, so I'm not new to writing or fanfiction in general, for that matter. I hope you enjoy my first NCIS entry here on FFN.**  
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**Warning: This story will contain the sexual abuse of a child**. If you do not wish to/like to read something of this nature, I suggest you please turn back now.

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**Disclaimer:** _NCIS_ and its characters are the property of Donald P. Bellisario and his associates. This was written for non-profitable entertainment purposes only. Any Original Characters (OCs) are mine to claim.

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_**Sweet Little Boy**_  
by **dreamsweetmydear**

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Chapter One**

Special Agent Timothy McGee was once again asleep at his desk, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to the lack of sleep he'd been suffering for the last three days, and the look of anguish on the kid's face indicated he wasn't getting any peace while he slept either. Tony and Ziva left already; Tim had stayed behind, saying he wanted to finish his report. Unfortunately, his apparent exhaustion had once again made him pass out at his desk.

_I don't like this._

Leroy Jethro Gibbs' famous gut was twisting. There was something about the case they had just closed that had deeply affected his youngest agent.

A Marine's wife had died at Quantico, and her husband became the prime suspect when they discovered signs of abuse littering Leah Kline's body. The most heartbreaking moment, however, had come when McGee had discovered Kline's eight-year-old son, Toby, huddled under his desk in his room, covered in a blanket with his hands over his ears.

Gibbs had been impressed with the way Tim had surprisingly stepped up to the plate and gotten Toby's trust, getting the boy to talk, and reveal the sad truth that it was his father who killed his mother, and how he'd heard the whole thing from upstairs under his desk.

"Daddy was screaming at Mommy a lot. And Mommy was screaming and crying a lot too," the boy said when asked how he knew it was his father. "Daddy always screamed at Mommy a lot."

The rest of the case had been very much open-and-shut, as the evidence also showed that Lieutenant Jacob Kline was indeed the killer. They had finally managed to track him down and bring him into custody.

Toby had been handed off to Social Services. Gibbs had been worried that McGee wouldn't be able to let Toby go with them—they had bonded, and McGee had shown an obvious mistrust for the agency that was taking their charge—but he seemed to understand that it would be best for Toby to go with them instead of keeping the boy with him, and hadn't argued, simply giving the child a long hug and his card, telling him to call anytime he wanted to talk.

It wasn't just Gibbs that had noticed the similarities between the boy and the man either. Abby had been the first to dub Toby "Mini McGee," and no one had missed that the kid was obviously quite gifted when he'd quickly solved the Rubik's cube McGee had given him to play with, and a perfect little gentleman, if a bit on the shy and quiet side, very much the way Gibbs would have pictured a young McGee. It had seemed fitting, since their team had already previously had a "Mini Gibbs" and a "DiNozzo Jr." in their care.

Gibbs shook his head slightly, coming back to the matter at hand. Something was seriously wrong with his youngest agent, and the tortured look on his face while he slept was giving him cause to worry.

_Maybe there's something in his file?_

Gibbs pulled up the employee database, and went to his team roster, double-clicking on McGee's name. Looking through the file that came up, Gibbs found nothing that seemed to answer his question. His psyche profile noted that he had been to therapy after a traumatic childhood event, but it didn't elaborate any further than that.

"L'ggo…" came a quiet mutter from the sleeping agent. "Le…Le'ggo m'ma…"

There was such anguish in that voice. Gibbs walked up to his youngest agent's desk, and put a hand on the kid's shoulder, shaking it gently to wake the sleeping man.

Timothy McGee was both blessed and cursed with an expressive face. The kid didn't have to ever say much to indicate his mood. And while that was a good thing when it came to interpersonal relationships, it also meant that when something was wrong, his face could never lie, no matter how much he verbally denied it.

Gibbs remembered the worried look Tony had sent in his direction when he'd left for the night after Tim had declined his and Ziva's offers to go out for a late dinner.

_Kid may be a genius, but he kinda sucks at taking care of himself when he needs to most,_ as Gibbs also recalled that the younger man hadn't eaten anything at lunch, and had quite obviously skipped dinner with his friends.

Tim was becoming more agitated in his sleep. "McGee. C'mon McGee, you need to wake up. _Wake up, McGee._"

Tim sat up suddenly with a loud, gasping, choking breath, back ramrod straight and eyes wide in terror and disorientation.

Gibbs kept his voice soft but firm, calming Tim down with commands to breathe, to take slow deep breaths, telling him it was a nightmare, he was at NCIS, in the squad room, at his desk.

_What kind of nightmare would haunt someone like you, McGee?_

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000

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I'm trembling,_ Tim noticed as he focused on his boss's soft voice, trying to breathe normally again.

He could still see her dead, once-bright eyes boring into him. One last shudder ran through him, and finally he was calm again.

Tim swallowed, and glanced at Gibbs, who had now backed away and was leaning against the filing cabinet between his and Tony's desks.

"Better?"

Tim nodded silently, his stomach churning at the memory of the nightmare rushing through his head.

"Sorry…sorry to bother you w-with…that, boss," he murmured.

_God, I'm so tired,_ Tim thought, his body feeling drained and heavy as once more, Toby Kline's young haunted face came to his mind's eye, morphing into his own face as a child.

He shook his head. _No. Don't think about it. You need to block it, Tim. The case is over. That time is over. It was…_

"Chinese take-out sound good to you?"

Tim blinked at his boss owlishly. "What?"

"Dinner. We haven't eaten since lunch, and I'm hungry. Chinese take-out sound good?"

Tim never thought it was possible for his stomach to growl and churn at the same time when food was mentioned. "I should probably stick with a soup. I'm not feeling too great."

"Well, you look like hell, McGee. I can't imagine you're feeling much better," Gibbs cracked a knowing smile in his direction.

"C'mon. I'll treat you, There's a place I know that does a great hot and sour soup."

Tim smiled faintly at his boss. The idea of being alone right now didn't sound appealing, and Gibbs' company was better than Tony's any day.

_Why not?_ "Sure, boss."

The two men stood, each packing up their things for the night. Tim picked up his bag, stuffing a couple things from his desk inside, when his hand came across the Rubik's cube Toby had solved.

_I forgot this was still in here._

Tim picked it up, rolling it over in his hands a few times, before putting it back in his backpack, Toby's face flashing in his mind for the umpteenth time.

"You coming, McGee?" Gibbs called from the elevator bank.

"Y-yeah, boss. I'm coming."


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

They ate in Gibbs' car, Tim sipping from a container of hot and sour soup, while Gibbs enjoyed a box each of broccoli beef and chow mein. They had come back to the Navy Yard, wanting to eat by the dock, but had opted to stay in the warmth of the car and simply watch the lights across the Anacostia through the windshield.

Gibbs kept dinner a purposely light affair, keeping Tim focused on small talk. As it turned out, the small talk was enjoyable for both of them. As they talked, Gibbs realized he'd never really taken the time to get to know his youngest agent outside of work, or outside of what he'd read in the kid's file. That, however, didn't mean that Gibbs didn't consider him an important part of his surrogate family.

They talked about their shared interest in astronomy, Tim's love for jazz, though he also admitted that his taste in music was far-reaching ("I like just about everything but rap"), and they discussed their love for the craftsmanship of old—with Tim and his Remington, and Gibbs with his boats. Tim told him about his love for science and literature, and while Gibbs admitted that he wasn't much of a reader, he did enjoy some good historical fiction every once in a while.

Eventually, though, dinner came to an end, and Tim fell silent once more, staring out at the lights.

_Direct approach it is,_ Gibbs decided, seeing that Tim seemed to be no longer with him. The glazed look in the kid's eyes worried him.

But Tim surprised him with a simple observation, his voice haunted. "He reminded me of…of me, boss."

"Toby?"

Tim nodded, still not looking at him.

"Why?"

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000

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_Do I just come out and say it?_

Tim was silent, wondering how to answer Gibbs' simple question. He could hear her screaming in agony at the back of his mind. It had been years since he'd heard that sound…

"McGee?"

He blinked. _Oops. Zoned out again._ "It's a long story, boss."

"Then we're gonna need a big pot of coffee."

Tim smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. _Gibbs and his coffee. Should've known._ "Yeah. Probably."

"Break room it is. Thank God I keep a stash of my blend here."

The two men got out of the car, and walked back into HQ, Tim following about a foot behind Gibbs. His boss held the elevator for him, and they went up in silence.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in the break room, Gibbs busying himself with putting on a pot of coffee, while Tim stood staring out the window at the skyline, and its faint reflection in the waters of the Anacostia.

In spite of his boat phobia, Tim had always found water to be a soothing element. Nothing made him feel more calm than the hypnotic motion of waves lapping against a shore, washing away anything that had been there previously.

It was…cleansing.

But watching the water wasn't helping anymore. He could still hear her screaming, and it was making him uneasy.

He didn't usually believe in signs, but…maybe it would help to tell someone, like it had before. He was tired. Tired of the images that were robbing him of his sleep. Tired of the dull, pained eyes that haunted his dreams, or the memories of…of…

Tim swallowed, eyes slamming shut as he tried to rid his mind of the image of _that man._ "I don't know if I can do this, boss."

_Because I'm scared._

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000

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Gibbs looked to where McGee stood by the window, his heart twisting at the fear he heard in that trembling voice.

"Hey, McGee."

When McGee turned away slightly from the window, Gibbs couldn't help but note just how young the man in front of him suddenly looked. Another curse of that wonderfully expressive face, because right then, Gibbs could have sworn that for a second he was looking at Toby Kline again, and not Timothy McGee.

"McGee. It's just me. Take your time. We're in no rush," Gibbs reassured his youngest agent as he settled into an armchair nestled in a corner next to the couch that lined the wall, sipping at his hot coffee while he waited. He could feel the tension rolling off the younger man, and Gibbs fought to keep calm against the urge to simply bark at the kid and make him talk.

The situation was delicate, and more than "aggressive negotiations" he needed the patience that could only come with being a father, because the man who he considered his younger son was struggling, and was in need of support, not a command.

Blue eyes watched as McGee once again turned back to the window. "I-I don't…really know where to start."

Gibbs' voice was infused with encouragement. "The beginning is usually a pretty good spot."

McGee "hmm"-ed in noncommittal agreement. Gibbs took another sip of coffee.

"I-I wasn't born…as Timothy McGee. My...my name was...was actually Timothy Harris."


	3. Chapter Three

**Warning!:** There are vague depictions of rape and murder in this chapter.

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Chapter Three**

Tim kept his eyes focused on the skyline, his voice a bit detached as he spoke.

"My…earliest memory is one I-I really love. I-I remember my Momma, holding me while she sang me to sleep. I looked like her."

"'Momma'?" Gibbs asked with a smile.

"That's what I called her. I-I still call her that, when I think of her. She was 'Momma' and I was her 'sweet little boy'," Tim confessed with a slight flush on his otherwise pale cheeks.

He pulled a worn photograph he'd grabbed from his gun drawer when they'd stopped momentarily at the squad room out of his pocket, looking at the face of the woman that had haunted his sleep as of late. But in the photo, the woman was smiling, her arms lovingly wrapped around a small boy with her features who sat in her lap as they posed on the front stoop of an apartment building. Tim passed the photo to Gibbs, who looked picture intently, a slight smile on his face. Tim could see the wheels turning in the older man's head.

"My father…was a bastard," Tim choked out, his voice breaking slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gibbs glance up sharply from the photo to focus blue eyes on him, slight surprise on his face at Tim's uncharacteristic use of harsh language. "Momma separated from him when I was about five and a half. I remember, before we moved out, he was either drunk and passed out, or…or drunk and angry, or sober and angry. Lots…lots of angry. And when he was angry, he…he hurt her. Smacked her around. Did…other things. He…he wanted to break her."

Tim felt the tightness in his fisted hands, and unclenched them slowly, as he remembered his mother's strength. "My Momma was the strongest person I knew. She fought hard for us, and got us away from him. She used her savings to get us an apartment. A neighbor took that photo of us just a few days after we'd moved in," he said, pointing to the picture in Gibbs' hand.

"Momma had...had managed to get a restraining order against my father, and was in the process of filing for divorce. We'd been free of him for…about two months. I started kindergarten. Momma was working from home; she had taught herself how to sew, so she was making little things like cushions and doilies, and selling them. We were...really happy."

Tim paused, swallowing.

"And then the day came, when he got served the divorce papers. And…and…"

Tim closed his eyes, remembering that horrid night. "And…he came after us… We were planning a party for…for my sixth birthday…"

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000 _Over 25 Years Ago_ 000

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"Now what does my sweet little boy want at his first big party, hmm? Clowns?" the mother asks her child.

"No! Not clowns! A…a pony ride?" the child looks up into his Momma's happy, smiling face. He's happy that his father isn't here. His father always made his Momma cry. Big green eyes like his own twinkle at him.

"Hmm. We'll have to see, sweetheart. We live in a building, remember? Ponies are really big. They won't fit!" She gently tweaked his nose with her fingers.

"Now," she said, pulling her son gently onto her lap. "What does my Timothy want for his birthday present?"

The child snuggles into his mother's embrace. "A-a new book?"

The mother smiles. Her boy is shy and sweet and has a sharp mind. She cannot be more thankful than to have such a bright child to lighten her days. "What kind of book?"

"A big kid book?"

"What kind of big kid book?"

"With-With dragons and-and wizards! And magic!"

The mother smiles and kisses her child on his head. "Okay. I'll get you a big kid book with dragons and wizards and magic. But do you want anything else?"

Bright green eyes meet her own, and they are full of the innocent love only a child can give. "I want Momma to be happy! Always!" he chirps with a bright smile.

The mother feels her eyes fill with tears, and she hugs her boy close. "Oh honey, Momma will always be happy as long as you're with her."

There is a sudden pounding at the door. "OPEN THE DOOR, ANNA! OPEN THIS DOOR!"

The mother stiffens in horror, and the child's eyes fill with fear as they look at each other. The mother looks at her child, and the horror disappears, only to be replaced by steel and love.

"Timothy, listen to me, okay? I want you to go and hide in your room. Lock the door."

"No! He'll hurt you again!" The child is crying. He's afraid for his Momma. "I'll protect you, Momma!"

In the background, the pounding gets worse, and the mother can hear the door begin to splinter.

"No Timothy! No, you can't do that!"

And then the door swings open. And it is too late.

The father grabs the mother and the child watches in terrified horror as his Momma screams in agony as she is gripped by her hair. The father hits the mother, and the child cannot bear to watch.

"Let go! Let go of Momma!" he screams, launching his small body at the father, kicking and scratching with tiny feet and hands. The father picks up the child as if he is nothing, and throws the small body against the wall.

Nearby, a framed photo of the mother and her child falls to the ground, and the glass shatters into small pieces.

The child cannot move after being thrown like a rag doll. He hurts all over, and can do nothing but watch and scream in anguish as he sees the father continue to hurt his mother.

"Please! Please let go of Momma!"

Something is wrong with his Momma, the child realizes, as the father continues to grip the mother, who now lies struggling and screaming on the carpet, pinned below. She looks wrong, but the child does not understand how. All the child understands is that his Momma's clothes have been torn to shreds, and that she is screaming and crying while the father yells all the while "You're mine! You're mine! You're mine!"

"Stop it! STOP IT!" the child continues to scream at the father, who pays no attention to the wails coming from nearly six-year-old lungs.

And then the mother turns her head, and the child sees his Momma's eyes. They are filled with tears, and the tears are streaming down her face. Her eyes bore into those of her son, and he sees the pain his Momma is in.

"Let Momma go! Please! Please let Momma go!" the child continues to cry-scream brokenly.

And then there is a bang. And the father is no longer on top of the mother, and there is something red and wet on the carpet. And Momma is still staring at him with her big green eyes.

And then the child sees something in the father's hand. And then there is another bang. And the child feels like there is fire ripping through him, and he screams before he topples over onto his side, his eyes locking with those of his Momma.

The father runs out the broken door, and disappears. The child hears a high-pitched wailing sound coming from the distance.

"Timmy…" Momma's voice calls softly. She is still crying. "Momma loves you, Timmy. You're going to have to be a brave boy, now, okay?"

But the child doesn't understand. "Momma, I'm sorry. I couldn't help you! Momma, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" the child cries.

"Shh. No more tears, okay, Timothy," Momma tells him, and he sees her getting closer to him. "Momma…Momma loves you. Always," she gasps, as a soft hand strokes against his cheek. "Promise me? No more tears. Okay? Will you be a brave boy?"

She is still crying. The child nods. "I won't cry no more. No more crying. I'll be brave." The child reaches out a hand, and wipes some tears away from his Momma's face. She's lying on the floor next to him now, and her hand is stroking his hair. "I love you, Momma."

"And I love you, my sweet little boy," she says. It sounds funny to the child's ears because of the way she is breathing, but the words bring a smile to his face, and she smiles back at him.

The child suddenly feels incredibly sleepy. "Momma, I'm sleepy. Is it bedtime?"

Green eyes look at him, wide. She is smiling, faintly. But she doesn't answer him.

The child doesn't know why Momma isn't talking. "Momma? Can I go to sleep now?"

But she is still. She makes no sound. The hand a top his head has stopped moving. And the child's eyes slip closed in darkness.

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000

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"I-I woke up in the hospital children's ward a day later. The gunshot was supposed to kill me, but my father's aim was off because of how drunk he was, and I just ended up with some internal bleeding but no hits to the vital organs. There was a detective there when I woke up. He-he was the one who gave me the picture and... and eventually told me that Momma…Momma was gone, and…and wasn't coming back."

Gibbs sat in his armchair, stunned at the story he'd just heard, trying to process the tragedy he'd just been told, trying to imagine a child-sized Timothy McGee facing such an unspeakable horror, and failing.

His heart broke for the man who sat in front of him with tears trailing down his cheeks, and for the child he had been whose innocence had been stolen from him so tragically.

"I-I testified against my father. My testimony and-and the evidence convicted him for 25 to life on the rape-homicide charge alone, and another 25 to life for his…attempt to murder me. He-he went to prison. Died in a fight with some inmates a couple-couple months later."

Tim stopped speaking, putting his head in his hands as he took deep, shuddering breaths, as his shoulders trembled with suppressed sobs.

Gibbs didn't know when he'd moved, but he found himself embracing the younger agent, the kid's face pillowed into his shoulder as he continued to cry silently, vaguely aware of tears running down his own face.

The older man wasn't aware of how much time had passed, but he felt when Tim had calmed down, and pulled away from him, giving the kid some room to breathe, while Gibbs also composed himself once more.

They remained in silence together for awhile, Gibbs gently squeezing Tim's shoulder before standing to refill his coffee cup.

He hadn't forgotten the abrupt manner with which Tim had stopped talking. He had a bad feeling about what was yet to come.

He handed a mug to Tim, who took the warm drink with a soft "Thanks, boss."

Gibbs settled himself once more into the couch, subtly letting the younger man know that he was there whenever he was ready to start talking again.

The senior agent watched as Tim sipped at the coffee in his hand, studying the expression on his face. Some of the haunted pain had been replaced by a heavy exhaustion that came with emotional revelations. However, he could still feel the tension and the pain that held his youngest agent in its grip, keeping him from the peace he longed for.

Gibbs couldn't help but be proud, though. What had just been described to him was haunting, and painful, but his boy was facing it head on. He was bravely exorcising his demons by bringing them out in the open.

_This is true courage._

Patiently, Gibbs waited. Tim had to do this on his own. And he'd already revealed one horror. He wouldn't have to wait too much longer before the next exorcism began.

And he was right.

Big green eyes locked with his. There was fear in those eyes, but Gibbs gave him an encouraging nod, and he saw the tiniest spark of steel come to life in their depths. "There's-There's more, you know."

Gibbs nodded. "I know."

Tim took a deep steadying breath. "You know that saying? Th-that things get worse...before they get better?"

Gibbs nodded, feeling the dread well up again. He could feel the demon rearing it's ugly, twisted head as once again Timothy McGee's eyes took on a haunted quality. "It-It got a lot…worse, boss."


	4. Chapter Four

**Warning!:** Part of this chapter depicts the sexual abuse of a child.

**  
Chapter Four**

That shame Tim had felt so long ago as a child was welling up inside him again, trying to consume him for the first time in years. He closed his eyes, trying to fight that feeling, that horrible feeling of guilt and panic and fear all mixed into one.

_I have to fight this. I have to. I've fought this before. I have to fight, have to fight, have to fight…_

_But he might hate me!_ the small voice that had finally been buried about fifteen years ago once again taunted him in the voice of his six-year-old self. _He'll think I'm ugly!_

Tim's eyes slammed shut, as he fought for control to get through the next part of his story. He didn't want this story, no one ever wanted this kind of story. But he had it, and he had to tell it, if only to put himself at rest once more.

He had to fight the demon, banish it, if not once and for all, then at least for a very, very long time before it reared its ugly head again.

_How do I tell this part?_

"Gibbs, you ever seen a movie called _Annie_?"

He was sure his boss was surprised at the DiNozzo-like movie reference. "Yeah. It…It was one of Kelly's favorites."

Tim nodded. "Yeah. It's…it's a cute movie. Lonely little orphan girl finds a loving home. Lots of happy little songs and dance numbers."

He paused, swallowing once more as he stood and paced a bit, before going back to the window to stare at the skyline again. The moon hung like a glinting diamond on dark velvet, and was perfectly center in the sky for the first time in a few months. Tim smiled, the silver light of the moon comforting and giving him courage to keep going.

"But…you know, orphanages…orphanages aren't like that. At least…n-not for me."

He paused again, collecting his thoughts.

"After the trial, I…I was placed with Social Services. And…I finally just…just kind of shut down. I had no one. Momma was gone. My father was a monster. I'd witnessed Momma's murder. My mind just…couldn't take it, I guess. I stopped talking. Didn't sleep much. Didn't eat much. I…I was a walking zombie."

He swallowed again, taking a shaking breath. "There were no foster families who could take me. I had nowhere to go. So…so they placed me in an orphanage, until they could find a family to adopt me."

Tim gripped the window sill, keeping his eyes focused on the peaceful picture outside. "On the outside, it…It looked…nice. Safe. Happy, even. There were other kids there. There was a…a little playground, with swings. I loved swings. Still do. Even…even the couple running the place seemed nice. Emma…Emma was, at l-least. But…But Da-…_David_…really scared me."

Tim heard Gibbs shift slightly on the couch, and he swallowed again, before glancing at the older man. "You know…you know that creepy feeling some perps have? Even when they smile? That…that feeling that…that can make your skin crawl?"

He saw Gibbs nod mutely, blue eyes locking with his own, an unreadable expression on his face. Tim looked back out the window. He couldn't bear to look at Gibbs while he told this part.

"David…gave me that feeling. I remember…the way he looked at me…when I was brought there. I…I thought he was going to eat me."

Tim swallowed again; his mouth was so dry. "He didn't, of course. Not really. Not in the beginning, anyway. He just…smiled a lot at me. Told me I was a cute kid. Just…little things like that. He…he w-was always...there, e-even when I...I didn't want h-him there. And…and that feeling never went away. He still s-scared me. And…and then…it got worse."

Tim squeezed his eyes shut, and gripped the window sill hard. His heart was pounding in his ears.

"It was n-night time. I'd-I'd been startled out of a nightmare… And-And he was there…"

000 _Over 25 Years Ago_ 000

The child jerks awake in his bed, eyes wide in fear. In his mind, he can still hear Momma screaming, still see tears coming out of Momma's big green eyes. She always seems to ask him why he wasn't a big boy, why he didn't save her.

The child wants to cry, but he doesn't. He remembers his promise to Momma. He would be brave, because he promised her. And being brave meant no crying.

The child does not scream when he sees Momma in his sleep. He simply waits, until Momma goes away again and he wakes up.

He rarely sleeps after he sees Momma in his sleep. He's afraid he'll see Momma screaming and crying again.

All around him, the child hears others sleeping, hears their deep breaths and happy sighs as they dream happy dreams.

But tonight, he sees something that scares him. The man is here, watching him.

The child sits up, stares at the man. He does not like the man. The man scares him. In his little chest, he can feel his little heart hammering against his little rib cage.

That man will not leave him alone, even now.

The man comes over, and picks the child up out of bed. The child remembers being picked up and tossed against a wall. In fear, the child struggles, but he is too small, too weak, because he is small for his age.

"Let's give you a warm bath. It will help you sleep," the man whispers in his ear, and big green eyes look into the face of the man. The man looks hungry, like a monster who will eat him.

The man carries the child into the brightly decorated bathroom. They go to the cubby where the child's Mickey Mouse towel is neatly folded. The man takes the towel, and carries the child to the tub. He turns on the water, waiting for it to fill.

The man sets the child carefully on the edge of the tub, and unbuttons the happy face nightshirt slowly. The child squirms; he does not like being touched by the man. He does not like feeling the man's fingers on his skin. It makes him feel funny.

The child tries to move away from the hands that are touching him. He is a big boy. He knows how to take a bath, how to wear his clothes.

Gray eyes look at him sharply. The child doesn't like those eyes. They are scaring him even more. They remind him of the father's eyes when he was angry.

"Now, now, little one. Sit still, or you'll get your pajamas wet." And the boy stills. He does not want to make the man angry. He does not want to get hurt the way the father hurt his Momma.

The man slowly removes the child's happy face pajama pants, fingertips leaving uncomfortable sensations on young flesh. The child continues to feel funny, like there's something pulling inside his tummy, and continues to squirm, feeling fingertips where they should not be.

The water has filled, a toy tugboat and a rubber ducky float cheerfully on its surface. The man picks up the child once more—the child shivers against the full contact of those hands on his skin—and places him in the water. The man takes the soap from the fishy dish, and dips it in the water to activate it.

The child sits perfectly still, cheeks flaming in shame, as unwelcome hands rub bubblegum-smelling soap on his little body. They lather over his little arms and hands first, then under. Then his little back and shoulders and neck. Then his little chest, then his little tummy. Then his little feet and in between his little toes. Then his little right ankle to right knee, left ankle to left knee. Then, slowly for some reason, his little right thigh. Little left thigh, also slowly. And finally, between his little legs.

The child squirms again, looking at the man with big green eyes, feeling fingertips once more where they shouldn't be. That is his special place. No one is supposed to touch there.

"We're just getting you nice and clean, little one, so you can sleep better," the man says, one hand resting on the child's small back, the second gently rubbing soap for a little longer in the child's special place.

Then the man has turned on the water again, draining the dirty water from the tub while rinsing bubblegum soap from the child's body.

And all the while, all the child can feel are the man's hot hands lingering on his skin, even when the man finally wraps him in his big Mickey Mouse towel. The man dries the child and he begins to squirm again, but stills once more when he sees the man's eyes looking angry like the father's. The man redresses the child in his happy face pajamas slowly, with care, fingertips grazing young flesh all the while.

And then he picks up the child, and takes him back to his bed, where he tucks him in.

"Such a good boy," the man whispers in his ear. "Sweet dreams, little one."

The child does not sleep again for the rest of the night.

Time passes. The child tries to stay away from the man, choosing to stay more with Miss Emma. When he sleeps, he dreams of Momma screaming, and hands touching him everywhere, and angry gray eyes.

The child still does not speak, still eats little, still sleeps little.

And the man is always there, always smiling at him, telling him is a cute little boy, staying with him when Miss Emma is not.

And the man comes back at night again thrice more, gives him a warm bath to help him sleep.

On those nights, the child lays awake in shame and fear.

Still, he does not cry.

000

"I…I still…I-I s-still r-remember h-his…h-his…"

But Tim wasn't able to finish his sentence, as his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, his hands still clutching the window sill, his back still turned to Gibbs.

Gibbs stood slowly from his place on the couch, fury and the fatherly instinct to protect his child coursing through him, his own cheeks wet with tears once more. He walked slowly to the sobbing, broken man on the floor, and knelt beside him, tentatively placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Tim caught his hand as soon as he felt it, and Gibbs gripped it tightly, wrapping his other arm around the back of Tim's shoulders, holding the younger man close as he shuddered with gasping, broken tears punctuated by anguished half-screaming sobs.

Gibbs stayed like that with Tim for a long time, grieving together with him for the brutal loss of innocence Timothy Harris had endured.


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Tim's throat was sore from the screaming cries that had wracked his body just moments before. Now he sat, back against the wall, knees bent to peaks, his arms resting on top of them. His head was tilted back, and his eyes were closed, the last remnants of tears drip-drying down his cheeks.

His energy was mostly spent, and his body felt heavy as lead.

Beside him, he could feel Gibbs shift into a more comfortable position against the wall, the older man's shoulder brushing his gently, a subtle reminder that he was still there and that he wasn't leaving. Tim was thankful for his comforting presence.

They sat in heavy, weighted silence. Tim still had more he needed to say, but thankfully, the worst was behind him now.

He swallowed, taking deep, calming breaths before beginning again, his voice raw with spent emotion. "I think…I think it was Miss Emma who f-finally figured out that-that I wasn't…getting b-better. I-I'd b-been w-with them for…for t-two months, and…and I s-s-still w-wasn't eating much, o-or s-sleeping m-much. I-I s-still w-wasn't t-talking. I-I just…c-couldn't. I-I was s-s-scared o-of th-that…"

Tim stopped, his breath hitching in his chest, before he finally haltingly let it out. Taking another deep breath, he started again. "O-one day, she t-told me to…to go p-play w-with…w-with _him_ and th-the other kids. I-I didn't move. I-I must have s-stared at h-her for h-half a minute. Sh-she was g-going to t-tell me a-again, b-but…but she didn't. She…she p-probably s-studied m-me for…for a-at least a minute…may-maybe m-more. I-I could t-tell sh-she'd f-finally f-figured out wh-why I-I w-wasn't g-getting b-better. Sh-she h-hugged m-me. S-said 'sorry' a-a lot. Cried."

He swallowed, again pausing to collect his thoughts. "A s-social worker c-came with a c-couple l-looking to adopt the next day."

He felt the beginnings of a smile on his face, his eyes filling with tears again behind closed lids, as he remembered that day. "Lieutenant Jacob McGee and his wife Angie w-were told that they'd n-never have kids. Th-they'd been married f-four years, a-and wanted a family. I-I remember Emma introducing Angie to me. We…we j-just s-sort of sat and…stared a-at ea-each o-other f-for a f-few minutes…"

* * *

000 _Over 25 Years Ago_ 000

* * *

The child stares at the woman in front of him, and the woman stares right back. There is a warmth in the woman's face, and a sadness too.

The woman reminds the child of Momma, of how Momma was before she took them away from the father. Momma was warm but sad then, but she always smiled at him, always told him she loved him.

Still the child says nothing, does nothing. He sits, still like a statue, and stares at the woman who makes him think of Momma.

And then the woman smiles, and speaks, her voice sweet. "You seem like a sweet little boy. I'm Angie. What's your name?"

The child's eyes widen; he has not forgotten what Momma called him. He has not forgotten his Momma. He stares at the woman, but does not really see her.

His lips move for the first time in many, many days. _Momma._

The woman reaches out, and strokes his hair gently. The child stiffens, and shrinks away. He can feel the hands of _that man_ all over him again.

The child can feel eyes on him. He sees _that man_ standing in a nearby corner, gray eyes watching him.

Green eyes look back into the dark brown eyes of the woman. She looks sad, like she will cry. But her eyes are warm with care, with love for him, a lost lonely little child.

He continues to stare at her, not daring to look away. She reminds him of his Momma.

He remembers seeing love like the woman's in his Momma's eyes when she looked at him.

He misses his Momma so much.

He wants his Momma to come back. _Momma,_ he mouths again.

She smiles at him again, and comes a little closer, but does not touch him this time. "Would you like to come with me? Would you like to go away from here?"

She reaches her hand out to him, and he stares at it.

Go away? Away from _that man_?

The child looks at the woman's eyes again. He feels safe near her.

Slowly, he puts his little hand in her bigger one. It feels soft against his skin. It feels the way Momma's hands felt.

_Momma,_ he mouths once more, staring into dark brown eyes.

The woman smiles at him once more, then looks behind her for a moment. A nice looking man with brown eyes comes up to them. The child looks at the man, and the man kneels down next to the woman.

He smiles at the child, and child shrinks away from him, remembering _that man_ and the father and the anger and the hands all over his skin. The man's smile disappears and is replaced by sadness, but makes no move to come closer to him, simply watching the child.

Green eyes slowly meet the new brown eyes. The child sees care and love in those eyes, not anger. Still, he does not move toward the man; he does not want to make him angry. The man smiles a small smile at him again, and the warmth in his eyes does not disappear. He too holds out his hand to the child.

"Would you like to come home with us?" The man's voice is gentle and deep, not loud and angry like the father's, not scary like _that man's_.

Still, the child does not take the man's hand, instead holding the woman's hand more tightly. The woman in turn holds his hand tighter in a gentle grip.

The man sees this, and takes his hand back. Still the child sees no anger in the man's eyes, and the man continues to smile, nodding his head.

"Okay."

* * *

000

* * *

"Angie—Mom—and Dad adopted me that day. They brought me to their home on base, since Dad hadn't retired yet. They never got mad at me, never yelled, never touched me without asking first. Dad couldn't always be around, but when he was, it was always nice. And being with Angie always made me happy."

Gibbs could see the soft look that came with remembering a happy moment on Tim's face, and felt his heart lighten just a bit.

"What are your parents like, Tim?" he asked. He couldn't remember ever hearing the younger man talk much about them.

"They're…really wonderful," Tim said simply, a warm look in his bloodshot eyes.

"They were really patient with me. The first year was…was rough on all of us. I know I hurt them a lot, because I couldn't handle being touched at all, unless it was just me holding Mom's hand, or Dad's hand, or one of them holding mine. And it was hard, because there were times when I wanted to be held, but was so…so afraid that…that something would happen. And while I'd begun to talk again, I…I still didn't talk like…like m-most kids my age. I n-never said anything about…about w-what _that man_ did. I couldn't. I…I was afraid I'd be sent back to him if they found out. Dad started making it a point to ask me if I had a good day, in an effort to get me to communicate. And it worked a little. What really helped was school."

"School?" Gibbs wondered if he should be surprised.

"I…yeah," Tim said with a half-chuckle. "How…typical of me, right? But really, it..it helped, sort of. Angie home-schooled me—she was a teacher before she married Dad, and had taken classes to keep her credential up-to-date. And…and it was like someone flipped a switch somewhere. I…devoured every book of every subject that I could get my hands on…to the point where Angie realized it wasn't really healthy. Because the fact was…while I learned quick and sped through everything she taught me, I still couldn't really function outside of the academics."

Tim swallowed. "I had…anxiety attacks, whenever we went to the playground. I'd stiffen and clam up, and the other kids teased me and pushed me around a lot, because I was really small for my age, and just…just couldn't function. Developed a lot of phobias—maggots especially—"

He paused, taking a breath, and Gibbs felt him stiffen as he prepared to reveal another secret. "I…I never screamed or cried. Ever. Not…not when I first came home and continued having nightmares. Not when the other kids bullied me and called me names on the playground. Not when I had flashbacks at bath time or on the playground. Not even when some of the bigger kids pushed me into a ditch full of maggots. I…I'd start reciting times tables, or poems, or the periodic table. When Mom and Dad found me in that ditch covered in maggots, naming the elements…I think that's when they realized I…we needed help--"

Tim's breathing was beginning to quicken in panic. Gibbs placed a hand on Tim's shoulder again, squeezing gently, reassuring the younger man as tremors shook his body.

"Take a breath, Tim. Breathe. Nice and slow."

Gibbs watched as Tim slowly, carefully took deep breaths through his nose, and let it out through his mouth, finally calming.

Gibbs waited as Tim collected his thoughts again, slowly removing his hand from the kid's shoulder while quiet pride swelled in his heart once more, and mixed with a humble honor at being the one to witness Timothy McGee face his demons head on.

He heard Tim taking another deep breath, and focused once more as the younger man's hoarse voice filled the air around them.

"We started seeing a therapist soon after the…the thing w-with the maggots"—Tim shuddered at the mention of the creepy critters—"which was about…four…maybe five months after I'd been adopted. She'd work with us one at a time, and then the three of us together. The first thing I told her was that maggots scared me…"

* * *

000 _Over 25 Years Ago_ 000

* * *

"Timothy, what are you scared of?"

The child and the doctor sit at a small table, where the child colors on a piece of white paper. He does not answer the question.

"Are you afried of me?" she asks nicely. The child shakes his head.

"Maggots," he whispers.

The child picks up a grey crayon, coloring the monster's eyes.

"But Timmy, I'm not maggots. See?"

The child looks at the doctor. He nods, and goes back to coloring the place around the monster and the boy all black.

She smiles. "Why do maggots scare you?"

"They feel like hands," the child whispers, picking up the green crayon to give the boy on paper green eyes.

The doctor is silent, thinking about the answer she has just been given, and looking at the drawing the child is making. Finally, the child stops coloring.

"I'm done," he says.

On the paper is a boy with green eyes in a bathtub with a yellow duck. A monster with big claws and gray eyes is grabbing the boy, and all around them the paper is colored black.

"Can you tell me about your picture, Timmy?" the doctor says. She does not like what she sees, but is careful not to show it.

Innocently, the child points to the boy. "That's me." He points to the monster. "He wants to eat me." He points to the black space. "It's black 'cause it's night time."

"Timmy, did the monster hurt you at night time?"

The child nods.

"How?"

The child looks unsure. He does not want to make her angry.

"Timmy, did he touch you?"

Slowly, the child nods.

The doctor goes away for a moment and then comes back, with a doll. "Can you show me where?"

The child points, first to the arms and the hands, then to the back, then the chest, then feet and legs, then thighs, and finally, the doll's special place.

The doctor asks one more question. "Timmy, does the monster have a name?"

The child blinks, but is otherwise still. "Timmy?"

Still, there is no answer.

The doctor sighs, and takes the child's drawing with a large smile, masking her horror and pity. "Never mind, Timmy. You tell me when you can, okay?"

She stands, going to get his parents, when there's a soft confession.

"It's Mr. David." The doctor looks back at the child, and sees the haunted look in his green eyes. Her heart breaks for him.

She comes back, and kneels in front of the child. "Who's Mr. David, Timmy?" she asks softly.

"He took care of us kids with Miss Emma," he whispers. She nods, gives him a big smile.

"You did a good job today, Timmy." She pulls a chocolate from her bag, and puts it on the table in front of him.

The woman cries when the doctor tells her what she has learned about the child. The man feels rage and horror for the child. They wish that they had known sooner. They wish they could have helped the child sooner.

That night, the child hears the woman crying, and comes out, afraid the man will hurt the woman, afraid the man might hurt him.

He sees the man holding the woman as she cries. He sees the man crying, and the child is ashamed, and scared. He should not have told the doctor _that man_'s name! He'll be sent back now!

"You're going to take me back, aren't you?" he says softly. The man and the woman look up, surprised to see him there.

"What are you doing out of bed, Timmy?" the woman asks aloud.

But the child doesn't hear her. "Please don't take me back. I'll be a good boy. I'll be brave. Please don't take me back."

The woman and the man come to him, and they kneel in front of him.

"We're not taking you back there, Timothy. Promise," the man whispers, taking the child's left hand in his.

"We love you too much to send you away, Timmy," the woman says smiling while tears pour from her eyes. She takes the child's right hand with hers.

"Can we hug you, Timothy?" the man asks the child.

"C-Can I h-hug you back?" the child asks, his voice soft.

With smiles and tears, the man and the woman hug the child, and the child holds them as tightly as small six-year-old arms can, tears falling down his cheeks for the first time in months.

* * *

000

* * *

"I was in therapy…f-for a long time, boss."

Gibbs said nothing when Tim stopped talking again, simply squeezing his shoulder in reassurance, before standing to go and pour them some more coffee.

He surreptitiously watched his youngest agent, who sat huddled still against with wall, eyes far off. The kid's green eyes were red and puffy, still pained. However, Gibbs could also see that they were much clearer than they had been earlier that night.

Turning his back on the younger man again while he concentrated on making for the two of them, he asked a he'd always wondered about, and was nagging him even moreso now. "How'd you end up at MIT when you were sixteen?"

"Mom homeschooled me until I was twelve. When she first started teaching me, even though I couldn't function outside of academia, she saw that I was apparently really bright. So she continued to teach me. She was qualified to teach all the way through eighth grade, and I'd completed all the first through eighth grade course work by the time I was twelve. I took a proficiency test, and was deemed slightly ahead of most freshmen, but not enough to go on to tenth grade. So my parents mainstreamed me then, placing me into the local high school, since Dad was retired by then and we weren't living on base anymore."

Gibbs felt his father-sense tingling. There was something Tim wasn't saying. "It must have been hard being around so many people."

Gibbs grabbed the two mugs of coffee and turned around, in time to see the telling look on Tim's face as he swallowed and looked to the side. "Therapy can't solve everything, boss."


	6. Chapter Six

**Warning!:** This chapter contains a vivid description of a boys' locker room.

**  
Chapter Six**

Tim closed his eyes, thinking back to almost twenty years ago, remembering the four years that were some of the best and worst of his life.

"High school was a blessing and a curse," he began. "It gave me the chance to explore things like literature and computers, and it forced me out of the house, into a...a really social place."

He paused.

"But yeah, boss. It was …really hard to be surrounded by so many people. Fact is, therapy doesn't really…cure you of trauma. It just helps you learn to understand it, maybe deal with it a little better."

Tim blinked when he noticed the mug of coffee in front of him. He tossed a grateful smile to his boss, and took the mug, sipping carefully at the hot liquid. He could feel the heat of the drink travelling through his body, and it helped relax him.

He felt Gibbs settle next to him against the wall, sipping his own coffee. Glancing at him through the corner of his eye, Tim saw the familiar _Ah, now_ that's _coffee_ look cross the older man's face, and Tim couldn't help but smile slightly.

He leaned back against the wall once more, and began to speak again. "I had a major panic attack the very first day. I had first period gym. I didn't make it too far into the locker room…"

* * *

000 _Over 15 Years Ago_ 000

* * *

The child pushes open the double doors labled "Boys' Locker Room," and stops dead.

All around him there are boys, several of them much taller and much bigger than him. They slap hands, bump chests, give each other noogies. Most are smiling, laughing. Some are not. A few are pushed into the toilet stalls by some of the bigger, tougher looking boys.

All are in various states of undress—some without their shirts, some pulling on royal blue gym shorts, some still in their underwear doing wrestler poses in front of their friends.

And the child is screaming in his mind, because there are too many boys, too many bodies, too many eyes starting to turn in his direction. They are all staring at him, judging him, knowing what has been done to him.

The doctor and Angie and Dad assured him many times when he was younger that there was nothing wrong with him. That he is not ugly, that his scars make him even better, that what _rhat man_ did is not his fault. That he is brave for facing the father in front of so many people.

But he does not feel brave now, because he sees many eyes staring at him. And suddenly he no longer sees all the boys, but angry gray eyes glaring at him, wanting to eat him, and feels _that man_'s hands all over him again.

The child is sure that these bigger, tougher, better boys will eat him too, because he is not better than them, no matter what everyone else seems to say.

_No!_ The child fights the frightened part of himself in his mind. He does not want to be eaten. He doesn't want to be hurt again. He knows that he cannot keep thinking this way. It's not his fault he was hurt when he was little, it's not his fault that he saw his Momma die. _It's not my fault!_

_But they'll hurt me! They'll hurt me like that man! They'll hurt me like my father hurt Momma! I'm too small! I'm not strong enough! I'm ugly! They'll hate me, they'll hate me, they'll hate me!_ The frightened part of the child screams in terror. _Please, don't let them hurt me! Don't let them hate me! Don't let them touch me!_

_No!_ The child screams in his mind, remembering the doctor's words, remembering Angie's and Dad's hugs, remembering little Sarah's smile. _No! I'm strong, I'm strong, I'm strong!_

And then everything is quiet, and all the child can hear is his own harsh breathing, tears trailing down his cheeks. He is curled into a ball on the concrete floor of the boys' locker room, and can hear the whispers of the other boys.

"Did you see that? That kid just totally freaked!"

"The kid _is_ a freak!"

"What a loser!"

"We have fresh meat, boys, fresh meat…"

And the child suddenly knows that he has no friends here, only monsters. His cheeks burn in shame, as he hears the snickers and the whispers.

_They really do hate me._

_

* * *

  
_

000

* * *

"I continued having panic attacks like that for a long time. But more than that, it was the reactions I couldn't handle. The other kids…they thought it was _funny_. They laughed. 'Had a freak out yet today, McGee?' they'd ask as I passed in the halls. The bullies took extra pleasure in shoving my head in the toilet, because the reaction I gave them wasn't like the other kids. More often than not, I…I was screaming, because it felt like…like I was being grabbed by my father again. At one point, I asked my parents to take me out. Hell, I _begged_."

Gibbs could hear the pain seeping through Tim's choked voice, and squeezed the younger man's shoulder once more as he took deep breaths to calm himself. The older man couldn't help feeling sorry for the kid; no one deserved this kind of story.

He focused again as Tim began to speak once more.

"I went back to going through every book I could get my hands on. I didn't talk in class. I didn't say much at home. I didn't participate. By Thanksgiving, I'd done every problem in my math book, knew my physics text word for word, and had read every book on the reading list for my English course."

Tim stopped talking again, and Gibbs sat quietly, waiting for him to go on.

"And then Mrs. Maynard, my English teacher, gave us a really different assignment from what we'd been doing."

* * *

000 _Over 15 Years Ago_ 000

* * *

The teacher stands at the podium at the front of the room, staring at all her pupils, her gaze settling on the child for a moment as she remembers the dark secret hidden in his student file. She hopes that this assignment might help him somehow, because she can see that his brilliance is hampered by the pains he has suffered.

The child knows that the teacher is watching him, and fights the urge to tremble by clenching his hands under his desk as he keeps his head down. He will _not_ give in to the fear that is once again tormenting him.

"As you all know," the teacher begins, "we have been reading many, many short stories recently, and discussing the elements that make a short story."

"Like 'Harrison Bergeron'?" a student calls out, interrupting the teacher.

"Yes, Adam. Like Vonnegut's 'Harrison Bergeron.' And Porter's 'The Jilting of Granny Weatherall.' Now, as all of you are aware, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas break goes by in a flash, and I know none of you will be able to concentrate on any proper lesson I try to teach you. Thus, I've decided to give you a project to work on both in class and out."

Some students groan, some cheer. The child remains silent, but listens intently.

"For the next few weeks, through the end of Christmas break, you will all begin a portfolio of five short stories, each a minimum of five pages in length, combined with a daily journal. You may write about anything and everything in your journal, as long as you also make sure to chronicle your progress regarding your portfolio. Talk about your day, talk about your writing processes, talk about the ideas you have, and what inspires you."

A student raises her hand. "Who's gonna read our journals?"

"And our stories?" another student pipes up.

"No one but myself will read your journals. As for your stories, I and four of the other English teachers will read them all, all periods combined. We will pick the five best, and I will read them aloud in every one of my classes."

The students all chatter excitedly, and the teacher can't help but be pleased. They all look excited, wanting to win and have their work read aloud.

The child stares at the teacher. She sees a small spark of interest in his otherwise passive face, and gives him an encouraging smile before turning to everyone and getting their attention once more.

"I have blank notebooks that I will pass down each row. I want all of you to take one, as this will be your journal for the duration of this assignment."

The notebooks come down the row, and the child takes one when the stack is handed to him, after which he passes it on to the student behind him.

"Remember," the teacher says, and the child glances in her direction briefly before turning his attention to his notebook, "as long as you make sure to also talk about your stories, you can write whatever you want in your journal. Now, I'll leave you all to brainstorm. If you have any questions, please come see me at my desk."

And then the room erupts in chatter once more. The child continues to stare at the cover of his notebook, before he takes out a pen and writes his name neatly in the top right corner

**Timothy McGee.** He feels warm inside as the memory of coming home with Angie and Dad flashes in his mind.

He blinks, and opens the book and flips through the blank pages. He glances up at the teacher, to see her speaking with a student. She notices him looking her way, and she smiles. She seems to understand what he is asking. _Anything,_ she mouths.

The bell rings, and the child goes home, clutching the notebook to his chest. That night, he sits at his desk, and stares at the blank pages once more.

_Anything,_ he mouths to himself, and so begins to write. He writes about the bullies and how they are monsters. How the cheerleaders are rude princesses. How he loves the sounds of alto saxophone, and cello and violin. He writes of his fears, and the father and _that man_ and his Momma and Sarah and Angie and Dad.

And as he writes, he gets ideas for stories. Stories of musicians wanting to make it big. Stories of princesses and the witches they become. Stories of lonely little children who search for magic. Stories of men who fight for honor and go to war. Stories of a boy who fights the monsters that refuse to stop haunting him.

Time passes. Thanksgiving comes and goes. Christmas comes, and he receives a wonderful typewriter as a present, that Dad shows him how to use and maintain. New Year's comes and goes.

And it is soon time to go back to school, back to that horrible place where the other students hate him, tease him, torture him. But this time, he feels something else. He is still afraid of the students, but he is also filled with quiet pride.

He is proud of the stories he has created. Ever the perfectionist, the child types the final drafts of the tales on his new typewriter, and tucks them into a folder.

And school begins again. The bigger boys grab him, call him 'freak' and 'geek' and 'nutso'. He still screams in bloodcurdling terror when his head is shoved into the toilet, because he feels the hands on him again, and sees the father throwing him against the wall.

But then English comes, and it is time to turn in portfolios and journals, and he feels the pride fill him again.

But then it leaves him once more, as he remembers there is nothing more to write. The assignment is over. And instead he is overcome by dread, as he remembers the secrets he poured into his journal.

And the fear comes back. _She will hate me._

And he forgets the stories he has written, forgets the peace that came with writing his secrets.

Days pass into weeks, until one day the teacher tells them that today she will read the five stories that she and the other teachers chose as the best.

She sits at the front and begins to read, and the child half-listens, until something catches his attention.

_"She looks into the mirror, and it begins to crack and shatter. And in all the little shards of glass, she sees a beautiful face touched by malice."_

_"The boy stares at the golden locket in his hand, feeling it thrum with warm magic and spread to his being. 'I will fight with honor,' he vows once more, 'so that my friends may live in peace.'"_

_"She watches the stars glinting in the sky, taking comfort in their glow. She knows the demons will come back, but allows herself this moment of rest."_

He stares at the teacher, stunned. Those are _his_ stories.

Later, she calls him to her desk.

"Your stories are wonderful, Timothy," she says with a broad smile. "We would have picked all of yours, but we thought it would be unfair to the rest of the students."

He gives her a small smile, and a blush tinges his twelve-year-old cheeks as he whispers his thanks.

"Maybe you should take Creative Writing next year," she suggests. "I think you'd do well."

He nods and goes home, realizing belatedly that she said nothing regarding his journal. He feels peace once more, knowing his secrets are safe with her, and decides that he might like to take that Creative Writing class after all.

* * *

000

* * *

"That assignment served as a turning point, in a way. The bullies continued to torment me, but I turned them into monsters, and wrote about them. They'd pull my gym shorts down, and I'd scream bloody murder while I had a flashback, but then I'd go home and write. It still really surprises me sometimes that just one assignment managed to make me a little stronger, but in retrospect, it's something I desperately needed at the time."

Gibbs was surprised, to say the least, by this new revelation. Tim seemed to notice his stunned reaction. "You…you were expecting something with a computer, weren't you?"

Gibbs couldn't help but smile, feeling proud once more of how far the man in front of him had come, and of the way he'd fought to get to this point in their conversation. "Well…yeah, Tim. It's you we're talking about."

He felt relief flood him as the kid let out his first laugh of the night, and it was a sound for sore ears. "Yeah…Yeah, I guess you're right."

"I'm assuming it came soon after the writing," Gibbs jibed lightly, noting with satisfaction the returning light to usually bright green eyes.

"That summer," Tim confirmed. "Dad bought it for Mom, since she's obsessed with technology like me. The minute I saw it, I was hooked. I spent hours on it, figuring out how it worked, playing with the programs and the system controls. By the end of the summer, I'd taken it apart and put it back together again at least twice, taught myself some basic coding, and I'd decided that, no matter what, I was going to work with computers when I grew up. Angie still complains sometimes that I used it more than she did, but figures it's a blessing in disguise."

"Why's that?" Gibbs wondered aloud, surprised that it was Angie McGee, and not the former Lieutenant, who was the tech-savvy parent.

"Because for the first time since I'd been adopted, I talked like a normal kid my age. Dad loves teasing me about that, telling me I drove him crazy with my constant babbling about this new feature, or that new system, or those new codes." Tim chuckled again. "He's…kinda like you that way, boss. Technology and him don't really play nice."

Gibbs chuckled softly as Tim began to speak once more, a reflective tone in his voice. "But yeah, after that summer, things got a little easier. I had my writing and my computer and my parents, and I got through high school, and went on to MIT with a full scholarship."

Tim paused. "But…But I never forgot what happened to me. Ever."

Gibbs was sure there was something more, and sure enough, Tim began to explain. "While college was great for me in terms of academics, I still had a lot of problems socially. Dating—that is, being intimate with someone—was completely impossible for me. The kind of physical contact that comes with a relationship caused me to panic and have flashbacks, and it usually scared the girl away. Even now, I have trouble with…um…that…that kind of thing."

Green eyes glanced at him, obviously wondering if he understood; Gibbs sent him a reassuring smile in response, and Tim nodded, continuing. "When exam time came around, and writing wasn't enough to calm me down, I usually studied like a mad man, because I couldn't sleep. And when I did sleep, I'd end up dreaming of Momma and…and _that man_. My roommate had to wake me out of screaming fits more than once during those two hellish weeks at the end of each semester. After four semesters, I opted for a single. I...I didn't want to bother anyone with my…issues."

Gibbs shot the man a sympathetic look as he paused, swallowing, before continuing. He felt his interest pique when he saw the blush that suddenly tinged Tim's cheeks.

"Remember something embarrassing?" Gibbs asked him, his voice infused with a light teasing tone.

"Just that, ah, any kind of…drug was a bad idea." He paused, and Gibbs sensed it was probably more painful than embarrassing. "I only did it once, but the one time I did…I relived Momma's murder, and she screamed at me that I failed her." Tim didn't elaborate further, and Gibbs let it go.

"Why law enforcement, Tim?" Gibbs asked the man. Tim looked at him, and gave a small sad smile.

"The accident I had in high school put me in the hospital for awhile, and I…I had time to think. A…a lot has happened to me, boss. I knew that then, too. I…I didn't want anyone else to ever go through what I had to."

Tim swallowed. "I…I used to wish I could be like all the other kids. Happy, oblivious to the horrors of the world. I wanted to be them so _badly_. There were a lot of times I wrote in my journal that…that I wished I could be _normal_, just to know what…what being oblivious felt like. To know what it felt like to not have anxiety attacks and fear at the back of your mind that you'll never be good enough, that no one will love someone as...as damaged as you are, no matter how much you…you try to convince yourself otherwise." He looked away, cheeks red and eyes bright with tears once more. "I…I still wish that."

"_Hey,_" Gibbs barked at the younger man.

Green eyes locked with his blue, before Gibbs leaned closer to Tim.

_Thwack._

He then embraced the younger man, who stiffened momentarily at the surprise contact before relaxing.

"Don't you _ever_ think that way again," Gibbs said firmly into the kid's ear. "Because as far as _I_ am concerned, Tim, you are irreplaceable. You're too damn smart, too damn good, and too damn _brave_ to have someone normal take your place."

Gibbs let go of Tim, only to grab him by the shoulders a second later and look him straight in the eyes. "And if you ever find yourself thinking that way again, you remember what I've just said."

And though Timothy McGee was crying once more, there was a trembling, sweet smile on his face, the kind that only a sweet little boy could give as he nodded his head in silent gratitude, and Gibbs continued to watch him with a new found respect.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

Gibbs and Tim sat comfortably under the window, each sipping at yet another mug of hot coffee, enjoying the silence and thinking about the last few hours.

Once more Gibbs felt pride flood him as he thought back to the way Tim had bravely narrated his story, and was surprised that the kid hadn't passed out from mental exhaustion yet. He didn't even have to look at the younger man to know that he was drained of his energy, though the dried tear tracks down his cheeks and the circles under his bloodshot green eyes were a clear indication that the kid needed sleep.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gibbs could see the far-off look in Tim's eyes again. There was a question in those eyes, and Gibbs knew that when he was ready, Tim would voice whatever concern was still on his mind.

Gibbs didn't have to wait long.

"Boss…what about Toby?"

The older man swallowed the coffee in his mouth before turning his attention to his youngest agent. "What about him?"

"Is…is there any way we can make sure that he…he doesn't end up like I did? He's already dealing with the fact that his mom's dead, and that his dad murdered her. Can't we…can't we do _something_ for him? Maybe make sure he goes somewhere…better? Better than sitting in an orphanage or being bounced from foster family to foster family?"

Gibbs gave Tim a sympathetic smile. "Tim, you know that kind of thing is out of our hands."

The younger man gave a shuddering sigh. "I…I know, boss. But…I mean, we're federal agents! We…we're supposed to help kids like Toby, right? We're supposed to keep people safe! There…there has to be _something_ we can do. Right?"

Gibbs studied Tim for a few moments in silence, seeing the pleading look in his green eyes. "You can't hold yourself accountable for what happened to Toby, Tim."

Green eyes locked with his, wide in surprise. Gibbs continued. "It's not your fault that Toby Kline was a witness to his mother's murder. It's not your fault that you couldn't protect him from the horror of something like that. You can't blame yourself for that, just like you can't blame yourself for _your_ mother's murder, or for the fact that a scumbag took advantage of you as a child. That's not fair to you."

Gibbs watched for a moment as Tim processed what he'd just been told, before he went on. "You made a vow to protect people, to keep them from hurting the way you did, to keep them safe. That's a great thing, Tim. But you have to remember that you can't protect everyone from everything, no matter how much you want to. "

Gibbs could see that Tim was getting ready to protest, and pushed forward before he could interrupt.

"You're one man, Tim. It's not logically or physically possible for you to save everyone. Maybe in the world of fiction it is, but in real life...in real life, everyday, someone will suffer, will see something horrible, will be brutalized, will die. The only thing you can do is your best to make sure that the people who commit the injustices against other people are punished for what they did. And you're doing that, and you're doing a damn good job, too. Be proud of _that_, because I know I am."

Gibbs smiled at the slightly shocked look on Tim's face, and the blush on his cheeks. The younger man obviously hadn't expected to receive his boss's praise twice in one night, much less an hour or so.

"Maybe Tony was right. You _are_ getting soft."

_Thwack._

"Or not," Tim chuckled softly.

"That…doesn't bother you, Tim?" Gibbs asked, realizing belatedly what affect his rather aggressive form of disciplining his team could be having on the kid. "And the things Tony says and does?"

"It…it did, at first," Tim confessed softly, and Gibbs' mind flashed to a stammering and very green Timothy McGee constantly ready to apologize for a mistake or for making him angry. "But not now."

"Why?" Gibbs was curious. What had changed?

"Because…I understand why you do it," came his simple response.

Gibbs raised an eyebrow in a "_do-you-now?_" expression, and Tim smiled at him. "You guys aren't trying to hurt me, boss. You're my team. I mean…yeah, Tony can be a pain with his wisecracks, and it really does get on my nerves when he's bugging me or quoting movies all the time, but…I wouldn't have it any other way. He's just being…well, _Tony_. It's the way he is, has always been. It's how he deals with what we see everyday. And you get angry because…well, I like to think it's because you care about us, and want us to learn, to work hard…to do our best, I guess. It's not like you single me out; Tony and Ziva, and even Kate when she was…still here—we've all been on the receiving end of a 'Gibbs-smack' more than once. I…I trust you guys, the way I trust my own family. I know you won't hurt me. That's why it doesn't bother me anymore."

Gibbs couldn't help but smile at that explanation, and nodded. Then remembering another question, Gibbs looked back at the younger man.

"Why isn't any of what you told me in your file?"

Tim swallowed. "It's…it's there, boss."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow again. "Not in your psyche profile, it's not. Mind telling me why all it says is that you were treated for trauma as a kid?"

Gibbs could see the rising blush in the kid's cheeks again, and took a guess. "You hid it, didn't you?" he asked, not needing to know _how_ the computer expert in front of him had managed that.

Tim nodded, slowly. "I…yeah. I…I didn't want any of this working against me, or for whoever became my boss to think of me as...as '_the crazy one_', or for anyone to judge me because of it. I…I mean…would _you_, boss?"

Gibbs paused for a moment, before nodding. "I never heard about this."

He caught the smile that Tim flashed him, and flashed one back as well before looking at the clock on the wall, Tim's eyes following as well.

The clock's hands read nearly 4:30 in the morning.

Gibbs felt Tim suddenly slump against the wall, and looked back to see the younger man rubbing his eyes with his left hand.

"Just realized how tired I am," he said aloud.

"You need sleep, Tim."

"…Yeah."

But Gibbs watched as Tim made no move to get up from the floor. "Something wrong?"

Bloodshot green eyes looked into his. "I'm...probably going to have nightmares again."

"Doesn't mean that you still don't need sleep."

Gibbs watched Tim nod in agreement before speaking again. "Yeah." A small, hopeful smile lit his exhausted face. "Maybe…maybe they won't be as bad this time."

Gibbs nodded, an encouraging smile on his face. "Maybe." He scanned the room, eyes settling on the couch and the armchair in the corner. "We may as well just crash out here. No sense in you driving all the way back to Silver Spring this late as tired as you are."

"'We'?"

"No sense in me driving home this late either," he stated matter-of-factly to the younger man. "If you get the blankets and pillows from the supply closet, I can go get our stuff from my car."

Tim seemed surprised. "You really don't have to stay with me, boss." Gibbs didn't like the tinge of shame in the kid's voice.

"Whose team are you on again?" Gibbs asked him, looking him straight in the eye.

Tim answered back automatically. "Yours, boss."

"Then you should know that I look out for my team, Tim. And you're right—the staff roster says you're on my team still. You're mentally and physically exhausted. I'm not letting you wake up alone and screaming from a nightmare after what you've just told me. Not tonight."

Tim paused for a moment, before smiling shyly. "Th-thanks, boss."

Gibbs only smiled and nodded before heading out of the break room to his car while Tim went to the nearby supply closet for some blankets and pillows.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Note:** A smidge of McAbby in this chapter.

**  
Chapter Eight**

Twenty minutes later found Gibbs and Tim back in the break room, where sleeping arrangements were being discussed.

"Take the couch, Tim."

"But...But I can't, boss."

"Why the hell not?" Gibbs couldn't understand why Tim would decline the offer to sleep in the better spot of the two options they had.

"Boss, it'd be impolite. And Momma and Angie always taught me to respect my elders. Which means you're supposed to take the couch."

Gibbs glared at his youngest agent, blue eyes bright with exasperation as he raised an eyebrow. Tim shifted nervously, and Gibbs couldn't help but chuckle on the inside.

"McGee, since when have I ever cared about being _polite_? I'm not ancient. I can handle sleeping in an armchair for a few hours."

"But—"

Gibbs firmly shook his head. "No Tim. You need the rest. You're barely standing as it is."

And it was true, as Tim had to keep shaking his head slightly to keep from having dizzy spells due to his lack of sleep.

"I mean it, Tim. Take the couch."

Gibbs hid a triumphant smile as Tim gave a resigned sigh and nodded. "Okay."

As the two men got settled, Gibbs remembered something that had caught his attention earlier. "You call her both 'mom' and 'Angie'."

Tim looked up at Gibbs from setting up his pillow and blanket, slightly confused before his face cleared again and he smiled softly. "Oh. Yeah. I call her both, 'cause…well, she's my mom and she's probably one of my best friends in the world. So…when she's being my mom, she's 'Mom'. And when she's being silly with me, she's 'Angie'. I guess I was never able to just call her one thing. But I love her and Dad a lot. And I'm really happy they brought me home that day."

Gibbs nodded, and they went back to settling themselves down in comfortable silence. Soon Tim was laid out on the couch, shoes kicked off and blanket draped over him, while Gibbs had opted for stretching his legs out on the coffee table, leaning back into the cushy armchair in comfort.

"Boss, are you sure you don't want the couch?"

Gibbs chuckled and shook his head. "No, I'm fine Tim."

Tim nodded and settled into his pillow, but Gibbs could see his eyes were still open and studying the tiles in the ceiling in spite of their heaviness. Leaning back into the armchair a little more, Gibbs asked another question that had been bugging him. "What happened to David, Tim?"

Green eyes glanced in his direction momentarily before going back to staring at the ceiling. "Shortly after I was adopted, the state shut down the orphanage. Someone tipped them off to…to what David had done to some of the kids, and the kids who were at the orphanage were shifted to somewhere else. Last I checked, David is still rotting in a prison somewhere."

Tim grew quiet again, and Gibbs watched as the younger man continued to stare at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes.

"Did you ever tell anyone else about what happened? Besides your therapist and your parents?"

Gibbs waited for an answer, and got one momentarily. "You're the first person I've told outside of my family, outside my therapist, and outside of the journal I kept for that assignment in high school." Tim looked at him again. "I...I regret not saying anything to Abby, though. She never said anything, but I knew she was disappointed whenever I...you know, avoided certain activities. I finally told her that it wasn't her fault, but that it was because…something bad had happened to me when I was a kid. She believed me, and we did eventually…you know… But in the end, we ended up not working out…because I screwed it up by asking for a commitment." Gibbs heard him swallow quietly. "I still love her though. Even now. It's…it's hard not to."

Gibbs could see the warmth in Tim's green eyes as he spoke of their favorite forensic scientist, and knew he was being honest. And as much as Gibbs hated to admit it, he was pretty sure the kid and his little lab rat were meant for each other. She was just being Abby, who figured these things out in her own way.

"Boss? You won't tell anyone about…any of this…will you?"

Gibbs looked at his youngest agent and saw the pleading in his eyes, and gave him a reassuring smile. "Rule Number Four, Tim. I have no intention of telling anyone else. But I don't think you should hide it from the others either. Tony, Ziva, Abby, Ducky, even Palmer—they're your friends and well-wishers, as much as I am. I'm not going to force you to tell them, though. That's for you to decide. When you're ready."

It was heartening to see the tinge of fear in Tim's eyes again. "I don't think I can actually…tell them, by word of mouth. I…I did it this time, boss, but…"

Gibbs shook his head. "Hey, you told _me_. You telling me you're more afraid of Tony and Ziva than you are of me? And Abby? She's harmless. And what about Ducky? And Palmer? Are you saying they're all scarier than _I_ am?"

Gibbs felt relief flood him when he saw the fear leave Tim's eyes again to be replaced by a sheepish blush as he continued to speak. "Tim, I'm not telling you to tell them later today, or tomorrow. I'm not even saying that you should tell them all at once. I'm just saying you should tell them. I know you care about them, and they care about you. You don't hide secrets from family. It's not like we're the mob…or the CIA or FBI or Mossad. We're your team. We'll be here when you're ready to talk."

He could see Tim's eyes beginning to close as the younger man nodded his acceptance. "It's late. Get some sleep, Tim."

But Tim was so exhausted that he was already asleep before Gibbs even finished talking. Gibbs smiled and settled back in his chair, trying to catch a few winks himself, as he fondly noticed the resemblance Timothy McGee held to a little boy when he slept. His Momma had nicknamed him perfectly.

* * *

000

* * *

Gibbs woke to the sound of the break room door creaking open, and the sound of quiet, sneaking footsteps.

"Put your cell phone away, DiNozzo," Gibbs quietly barked at his senior field agent, not wanting to wake Tim. The few hours since they'd fallen asleep were nearly uneventful; Tim hadn't woken up screaming, but had stirred quite a bit and had called out several times in his sleep. Gibbs, remembering the nights when Kelly had bad dreams, had simply placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder and spoken softly, assuring him that he was safe. Tim had finally settled into a deep, peaceful sleep not more than an hour and a half ago.

Tony looked at his boss sheepishly as he slipped his phone back into his pocket, pulling out the Post-It he'd found stuck to his computer with the simple words "Break Room" scrawled in Gibbs' handwriting instead.

"Got your note," he said dryly to his boss, also keeping his voice low. "What happened? Probie looks like he went to hell and back." He was clearly avoiding telling the older man that he looked the same.

Gibbs shook his head. "Long night. And he basically did," he muttered quiety before moving towards the percolator on the counter, next to which he'd hidden his personal stash of coffee grind. Setting the machine to work, he turned back and focused his gaze on the man who held the role of "eldest son" in his surrogate family. Gibbs hid a smile at the look of concern that crossed Tony's face as he looked at Tim.

"Why? What happened?" Tony asked, voice tinged with alarm, wanting to figure out what was wrong with his "kid brother".

Gibbs shook his head. "It's not my place to say, Tony."

"But boss—"

Gibbs shook his head at Tony again, who in turn stopped asking. "He'll tell you when he's ready. All I can say, and will say, is that he's a helluva lot braver than we give him credit for."

Tony was quiet as Gibbs finally poured himself a mug of hot coffee, the expression on his face a mix of resignation and concern.

"Must be _really_ bad, boss. You're being nice."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow as he came to stand near Tony.

_Thwack._

"Of course, you're always nice, boss. Never doubted that for a second."

Gibbs shook his head as he headed to the door. "Stay with him. Make sure he stays asleep, and that no one disturbs this room. He needs the rest." The look he shot Tony killed any protest or wisecrack the other man might have been about to make. "And don't even _think_ about taking pictures."

"Where are you going, boss?"

Gibbs exited the room. "To work, DiNozzo."

When Gibbs got to the bullpen after hitting the showers and putting on a fresh shirt, he found Ducky talking to Ziva. Keen blue eyes noticed the folder the other man held in his hands.

"Ducky, what are you doing up here?"

The Scottish man looked in his direction, his usual smile on his face. "Ah, good morning, Jethro! Are you all right? You look quite tired."

"I'm fine, Duck. What's up?"

"I was actually looking for our Timothy. Have you seen him? I assume he's here already, but no one seems to have noticed him come in," the elder man asked, nodding to the backpack resting by Tim's desk.

"He had a rough night and is resting in the break room. Tony's with him to make sure he isn't disturbed," Gibbs explained.

Ducky looked taken aback. "Oh dear. Is he all right?"

Ziva shot Gibbs a look, trying to mask her worry with a barb at her other teammate. "And is it wise to have _Tony_ be the one to keep him from being disturbed?"

Gibbs tossed Ziva a smirk. "Don't worry, Ziva. I've already warned Tony not to bother him. And yeah, Ducky, he's fine. Just…really tired. Why'd you need to see him, anyway?"

Ducky gave him a knowing look, indicating he'd noticed Gibbs' pause, but didn't mention it. "Ah, Timothy had asked me sometime ago to help him find out where this poor woman's final resting place was."

Ducky handed Gibbs the folder, who opened it to see the death certificate for Anna Harris, and the name of the cemetery where she was buried. It was located in Philadelphia. "He said that the ME who did her autopsy was retired, and that he couldn't get in contact with the man, and so thought maybe I could help. Odd that he had her date of death, and just as odd that he knew she would be somewhere in Philadelphia. When I saw her autopsy report, I couldn't help but feel for the poor soul. Fatal GSW to the chest." Ducky shook his head sadly. "The lad wouldn't say just who she was to him, but I got the feeling that she was someone very special."

Gibbs glanced up at his long-time friend, and caught both the ME and Ziva looking at him curiously. "Yeah, she was. He'll tell you guys who she is…eventually."

He moved toward his chair, placing the folder aside and putting a Post-It note on it so that he wouldn't forget where it was supposed to go. Gibbs then glanced up at his older friend and then the Israeli woman, who shrugged and turned to go back to her own desk. "Thanks Duck. I'll make sure he gets this. I know he'll really appreciate it."


	9. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE – **_**Two and a Half Weeks Later**_

Abby smiled when she heard the doors to her lab open with a _swish_ followed by the familiar sound of Tim's footsteps, but didn't look up from the microscope where she was studying a fiber sample for another team's case.

"Hi Timmy. What's up?"

"How'd you know it was me?" She could hear the surprise in his voice, and looked up, shooting him a knowing grin while her green eyes twinkled.

"Oh McGee. You should know by now that I _always_ know it's you."

He shook his head with a soft chuckle as she walked over to him. "So what's up?"

Abby felt her curiosity pique when she saw Tim's expression shift from happy to the shy pensive look he got when he wanted to ask her something but wasn't sure how she would react. She caught him fiddling with a folder in his hands, and cocked her head to the side. "Timmy? Something wrong?"

He looked down for a moment, and she could see he was trying to gather his thoughts. Abby shrugged, and turned to go back to her microscope. She had known him well enough and for long enough that she knew he'd speak when he was ready.

Still, a little prodding never hurt anyone. "Spit it out, McGee. It's not like I'm going to bite."

"I…uh…" She hid a giggle as she heard him swallow; Abby had always found him so cute when he was nervous.

"W-Would…wouldyoucometoPhiladelphiawithmethisweekend?"

She looked at him again, eyebrow raised. "Would I what?"

Tim took a shaky breath before asking again, "Would…you come to Philadelphia with me this weekend?"

"Why Philadelphia?" she asked, now extremely curious, and a little worried when she noticed how tightly he was clutching the folder in his hands.

"There's someone that…that I'm going to see. Someone…really important to me. I-I was…kind of hoping you'd be willing to come with me." He paused. "I'll understand if…if you don't want to. And really, you don't have to…"

Tim fell silent, and Abby studied her best friend for a moment. Tim's head was bowed, but she already knew he was beating himself up for even asking.

She thought about the way he'd asked his question, and Abby realized she hadn't heard him stammer like that in a long while. To her, that was a clear sign that this wasn't just a normal social call; Tim was looking for support.

She was both honored and pleased that he'd come to her for the support he was looking for. Abby Scuito would do almost anything for a best friend in need. "Sure Timmy. I'll go."

When his head snapped up in her direction, Abby noted that his expression was only mostly relieved, and wondered why he was still nervous. She pushed it to the back of her mind as they figured out the details for their trip to Philly, sure she'd find out eventually.

* * *

000

* * *

When they got into Philadelphia that Saturday, Tim first pulled the car to a stop in front of a small florist. He and Abby had both gone in, and while she browsed the aisles of flowers Tim went to the woman at the front of the store, where he quickly asked if she had any sunflowers. The woman smiled, and made him a simple bouquet of three sunflowers and some baby's breath.

When Abby saw the flowers Tim had picked up, he noticed the sparkle of curiosity in her eyes. "They're her favorite flowers," he told her simply, and saw Abby's eyes light up.

"So…this special person is really a special _woman_," she said lightly, and Tim felt a small smile tug at his lips at the teasing tone in her voice as he nodded his confirmation. He knew he'd made the right choice in bringing Abby with him.

However, when they pulled up to the cemetery after having lunch, he could feel Abby's surprised stare on him, and he felt the nerves he'd been fighting the past few days flare up once more. Swallowing, Tim took a deep, calming breath, pushing his nerves as far away as possible.

He was here on a mission, and he was going to complete it.

Parking the car, Tim gently grabbed the bouquet of sunflowers before getting out and walking onto the nearest path, Abby following quietly behind him as he searched the rows of tombstones and markers. Suddenly, he stopped, deciding to do things a little differently from what he'd originally planned.

"Hey Abby? Why…why don't we come back here in a little while? There's a story that I think you should hear first," he said as he turned around to face her.

He could see that Abby was fighting to keep from asking all the questions that swirled in her eyes, and was thankful that she didn't say anything.

They walked in the opposite direction until they found a bench under a large, shady tree, where they sat while Tim slowly told her the same story he'd told Gibbs just barely three weeks ago. He told her about his Momma and his father, about what _that man_ did to him, about Mom and Dad bringing him home, and the years and the pains that followed. He told her about high school, about Mrs. Maynard and that first creative writing assignment, his first computer, his college years.

As he spoke, Abby either gripped his arm tightly, or more often clung to him, wrapping her arms around him in the securest of loving hugs as she sobbed and whispered "I'm sorry, so sorry" over and over in his ears. When he needed to stop, he too would turn and hug her tightly, burying tear-stained cheeks in her shoulder as he quietly drew strength from her so that he could get through it all.

Tim would never say that telling Abby was somehow easier than telling Gibbs, because it was in some ways more difficult, simply because it was Abby. Abby, whom he loved dearly, whom he didn't want to expose to the horrors of the world, who was his best friend and knew him better than most. But in telling her the truth, Tim knew he'd done the right thing; he knew she deserved to know what happened to him, deserved the reassurance that it really was never her fault that he had avoided sleeping with her as much as possible and that when he'd told her he loved her those few years ago it wasn't an empty phrase. He only regretted not telling her sooner.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly without looking at her, breaking the silence that had come over them as she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

"For what, Tim?" she glanced at him, surprised curiosity in her green eyes.

Tim looked away, cheeks red with shame. "For…for not saying something sooner. For asking you to give something more when I wasn't being completely honest with you. Don't get me wrong, Abs—I really _did_ want to say something. But I…I'd already had relationships where the girls ran away because I had trouble being intimate with them and couldn't say why, which made me think that if I'd told them, they wouldn't have even stuck around long enough for another date. I…I didn't want to face that kind of hate again, Abs. I didn't want you to think I was…some kind of freak. But…by not saying anything, I hurt you more, and eventually drove you away. And I'm especially sorry for that."

He felt Abby take his hand, and looked up to see her giving him a shaky smile. "You forget, Timmy, that you've always been _my_ geek. That hasn't changed with what you've just told me."

His vision blurred with tears again, but he blinked them away, and held her hand a little tighter.

"Tim, I still care a lot about you, and maybe even love you still. I don't know," she said softly, shaking her head to emphasize her indecision. "But I know that right now, I'm not ready to settle down, and make a commitment to one person." She squeezed his hand tightly, and looked him in the eye before speaking again. "If and when I ever get to that point, though? And if you're still available? Maybe…maybe _then_ we can try again."

Tim smiled at her, and give her a chaste peck on the cheek while squeezing her hand again. Though it might hurt a little along the way, he knew he'd wait for her as long as he could, because he was sure from the first time they'd met that he'd found, if not _the one_, then someone pretty close to it.

Tim looked back out at the rows of gravestones, and looked down at the sunflowers sitting next to him on the bench. He took a deep breath, and picked up the bouquet as he stood, Abby in tow, an encouraging smile on her face as she gently squeezed his arm.

It was time.

Walking in solemn yet comfortable silence, they retraced their steps down the path back to where they'd turned around, and continued down the walkway as Tim kept his eyes out for the marker he was looking for.

Tim finally found the marker two rows back from the footpath, and made his way toward it. The granite stone that marked the grave was shaded by a nearby tree with widespread branches.

Tim looked down again at the bouquet of sunflowers for a moment, before he knelt in front of the granite stone, Abby right next to him, and gently placed the bouquet in the small hole in front of it.

"Hi Momma."

They stayed there for quite a while, Tim speaking quietly to Anna Harris' grave, running his fingers gently over the engraved words in the granite stone. Finally, reluctantly, he felt it was time to leave. It was a long drive back to D.C.

Tim stood slowly, Abby giving him a warm hug. "We have to go now, Momma. But I'll try to come back soon. Maybe Abby can come back with me then, too." He glanced at Abby, who smiled at him, before looking back at the stone. "And if she can't, maybe I can bring another friend with me. Maybe Gibbs. Or Ziva. …Maybe even Tony."

Tim was quiet a moment, a soft, sad smile on his face. "I love you, Momma. Miss you a lot still." He blinked, and smiled again, this time a little more brightly. "But I'll come back soon, Momma. I promise."

And as Tim and Abby turned to leave, he could have sworn that the breeze that had picked up earlier sounded like his Momma's voice whispering _I love you, too_.


End file.
